Hotline Miami: The Novel
by Illcitvirus115
Summary: Based on the hit game of high-octane action, overflowing with raw brutality, hard-boiled gunplay and skull-crushing close combat, fans and readers alike can finally dive into the mysterious mind of "Jacket", the anti-heroic protagonist of Hotline Miami.
1. PROLOGUE, THE METRO

_**PART ONE: PHONE CALLS**_

A man in brown driving gloves, teal pants and crimson varsity jacket in a pig mask, holding a bloodied fire axe, wanders into a bathroom with spattered blood on the floor, and stops near the sink after dropping the axe. he is clueless as to how he obtained this mask and why he feels little to no guilt or responsibility for his unmentionable actions while or why he was wearing it.. He stares into the mirror, and his skull flooded with feverish visions of brutal murder, swinging a fire axe, and lunging with a knife into a man's forehead, bludgeoning anything that breathes with whatever he can find.

Seething with horror and disgust, he soon removes the pig mask, and stares into the mirror, revealed to be a blond man with a stubby beard matching the hue and eyes of blue, but discovers hide nor hair of his memory or identity to be found. Lost in complete darkness, he removes his gloves to wash his blood stained hands, and is both curious and disgusted to know how and where they were stained in this familiar hue.

After cleansing his hands, he stared at himself in the mirror, his visions returned, of a shotgun igniting from his hand, and swinging a golf club upon the head of a green haired man. His shock and disgust multiplies at the thought. Knowing not what to do next, he unknowingly opens the door he entered through, only to be treated by a dark, bug-infested room, where he is besieged by three masked strangers in similar chairs, illuminated by three different neon silver lighting.

A woman in a green dress, black heel shoes and wearing a horse mask, there was a blue light mysteriously shining behind her chair, a man in a rooster mask, who wore the same letterman jacket the stranger had on, with a yellow light glow behind him, two pot plants next to him, and a translucent table with a neon purple record player and a man dressed like a Russian mobster wearing a horned owl mask, and a red light behind him, implying his hostility.

The record player was blasting a haunting melody with dissonant guitars and in the deeper verses, the singer was repeating the words ' _Silver lights_ ' echos all around the room, but none of the masked figures notice, except for the stranger. Three names popped into his head, "Don Juan" "Richard" and "Rasmus". Not knowing who he was, nor the horrific things he may have done, the stranger dubs himself "Jacket" for his bloodstained coat. Then, the horse woman breaks silence;

" _And who do we have here?_ "

Jacket is startled by her words.

" _Oh? You don't know who you are?... Do you?... Maybe we should leave it that way..."_

Jacket also breaks silence;

"Wait... What are you- Hey. You're right. I don't know who I am..."

" _But I know you."_

Richard interrupts.

" _Look at my 'face'. We've met before...Haven't we?_ "

The stranger is uncertain of his lookalike's words.

" _I don't know you._ "

Rasmus beckoned.

" _Why are you here? You're no guest of mine!"_

Jacket stared back at the masked figures, his head held many questions, but none with memory of who he was, or what he was capable of.

"You could be right about that, 'Rasmus". I don't know you, and you don't know me. And I'm fairly certain I wasn't invited here either..."

" _Do you really want me to reveal who you are?_ "

Don Juan indulged.

" _Knowing oneself means acknowledging one's actions. And as of lately, you've done some terrible things..."_

"I don't understand."

Jacket replied.

"I don't even know what I did, and here I am, questioned by strangers in frickin' animal masks. Who are you people? What'ya want from me?!"

" _You don't remember me?_ "

Richard reassured, gripping a calender from behind his chair.

"I'll give you a clue. _Does April the Third mean anything to you? I believe that was the day of our first encounter..."_

Jacket looks at the calender and thinks.

"I...Woke up in my apartment, to answer the phone, after that I saw a package at the door..."

" _You look like you might be remembering something..."_

As Richard finishes these words, everything fades to black, Jacket, of course, was left hopelessly confused...

 _April 3rd, 1989_

 _Miami - Florida_

Jacket wakes up in his apartment, stirring from his white bed, adjacent two tables with a lamp on the right table, next to a blue bed in case of guests, which were very few for some reason Jacket couldn't explain. A TV next to an NES was in front of the bed. He remembered something, he would turn it on in case he grew bored, but today, he felt, would be different.

Buttoning on his all-too familiar varsity coat, which concealing his Miami Dolphins T-shirt, and slipping into Nike shoes, he heads out the bedroom and into the kitchen. A checkered floor was the only thing interesting about it. Another memory had returned. Jacket hasn't used the cooking equipment there for a while, with a good reason, he was a terrible cook and he knew it. not one of his most fond memories, but it was a good start.

He walked through the hallway to notice one of his many dirty T-Shirts and walks to the living room, and leans over to the answering machine next to the couch and table then picked up the phone:

" **You have one new message at: 6:30 Am.** " *Beep!* " _Hi, this is 'Tim' at the Miami Sugarworld Bakery! I'm just calling to let you know that the cookies you ordered should be delivered by now. Oh, and a list of ingredients are included. Make sure that you read them carefully!"_ *beep!*

Jacket, of course, is clueless as to why he would have cookies delivered if he didn't actually order them. When he answered the phone, another memory returned. Somehow, Jacket KNEW he would get a call like this on April the 3rd.

 _Strange, yet symbolically compelling..._

He thought to himself as he steps out the door, to be greeted by a cardboard box. The message was right about one thing, he thought; he would be getting a package. He easily opens it up and finds a latex rubber rooster mask and a paper that reads;

" _ **The target is a briefcase. The Courier is hiding in Brickell Metro Station. Has hired at least eight men to guard it. Eliminate security and the Courier. Discretion is of essence. Unscheduled train will be there shortly with enemy reinforcements. Leave target at point F - 32, inside the dumpster Failure is not an option. We'll be watching you.**_ "

Who exactly would be watching Jacket didn't cross his mind, considering the more-than-obvious death threat in the papers. He remembered something again, it was faint, but he remembered why he would get this. He decided to ponder about this later. He headed downstairs into the front yard, where he saw his prized DMC DeLorean in the parking lot. This too was a fond memory that he instantly recovered. He spent all his life's savings on this beautiful car, and thought it would be respectful in hindsight for a test drive. He heads into the DeLorean and speeds off to his mysterious goal...

 _ **PRELUDE**_

 _ **THE METRO**_

 _Brickell Metro Station_

Jacket drives up to the entrance of the train station, and gets out of the DeLorean. He knows that whoever's in there is expecting company, and knows he won't be easily welcomed. Knowing his faint identity would be at stake, he takes the rooster mask on top his head and pulls it downward, concealing his face entirely, and steps inside without a second thought.

A solitary man is there to greet him. His memories returned again, once more, he KNEW that he would meet people that looked like this; He wore a white pastel suit on top of a blue dress shirt, all very clean and strangely out of place in the dingy metro. Jacket is unsure of what to do now-what is expected of him after he puts the mask on? He clenches his leather-gloved hands eagerly and nervously awaiting what to do next about this stranger.

"Я не знаю вас. Вы здесь не рады ..." (YA ne znayu vas. Vy zdes' ne rady.../I don't know you. You're not welcome here.)

The man growls a sentence in some European dialect, probably Russian, before spitting out his cigarette from between his teeth and brandishing a baseball bat, bringing it back in a swing at Jacket's chicken-masked head. The man brings no definite answer to the question spinning in Jacket's brain, but he does drop a hint of what has to be done next: If Jacket does not react quickly enough, this man will kill him.

Fortunately for Jacket, he dodges the mobster's bat and his fist lands a straight punch to the commie bastard's ribs, the body shortly after falls to the checkered ground on his spine. Jacket grabs the wooden bat and smashes the Bolshevik's bald head open with three swift, devilishly accurate hits to the face, a pool of crimson fluid pours out of the front and gray matter seconds later. Jacket stares down at his gloved hands in horror, stained a sickly shade of dark red. How long had that taken? Seconds at most? So quickly had he taken this man's life without so much as a conscious action; it was all reflexive. Never would he have considered himself capable of murder, and never would he have expected himself to feel anything resembling glad excitement. He shutters at the thought as he fights the urge to vomit.

As he walks up to find a medic, or at least somebody to apologize to for the murder, the bathroom door opens in front of him and a secondarmed man in a white suit emerges. Jacket has no time to dwell, he must act to survive. He grips the bloodstained bat tightly and forces all remorse from his mind. He strikes the next man down to the floor, the struggle is over in seconds, his brains spilling against the marble. Shakily, Jacket raised himself to his feet and stared down in horror at what was left of the man's skull. An angry shout same from above, drawing his attention to a nearby stairwell. Here went nothing. He dropped the baseball bat and snatched up a knife from the dead man's hand before bolting up the concrete stairs.

He went upstairs to be met by a book and several mysterious substances staining the magenta floor, he pays no heed and ventures through the hallway to see another mobster staring blankly at the wall, with a bat in his hand. Jacket knocks the commie down with his gloved fist, leaned down and slit the man's throat, his blood staining the neon purple carpet. He turned a corner, knife at the ready, as another gangster took notice and raised his lead pipe in a swing. Jacket gracefully dodged the blow and shanked the man through the stomach, who fell to the earth thereafter. Upon noticing another mobster approaching, he gripped the knife by the blade and threw it, landing square in the man's left eye, there was a screech of agony coming out of the man as he hit the floor and bled out in mere seconds. Jacket looked down at his blood-stained driving gloves as a terrifying thought crept into his brain: this was getting easier. Another memory popped into his skull, something about these murders specifically; He HAD done this sort of thing before. He had no time to think on it.

Another mobster brandishing another knife runs towards Jacket to avenge his comrade, thinking quickly, Jacket grabbed the pipe and threw it at the gangster's head, and fell flat on his back. He approached the man and, closing his eyes like a fearful child, smashed a lead pipe down on his skull. After three strikes, he stood up, nearly stumbling, and averted his gaze from the bloodied tile floor and looked straight forward through the eye-holes of the mask. With trepidation, Jacket stared down into another hallway, struggling to control his breath and heart rate.

"Hey член-лицо! Looking for this?!"

A man in a trenchcoat yelled to Jacket, this man also wore a fedora and neon red sunglasses that concealed his eyes. Two mobsters stood menacingly at the sides of another man, as well as this stranger holding a briefcase. As the Russians took notice of Jacket's presence, the masked killer took pause to identify his 'final' victim: 'The Courier' was holding the briefcase he was looking for, the one the phone told him about. The mobsters rushed towards him as he prepared to defend himself.

 _Prillan always said it would be fight or flight... If I stay here, I'm dead... If I run, I'm dead... So it would be wiser to fight!_

Jacket is left with little time to react as the mobsters holding pipes rush towards him, and is given little choice to run, but to fight back. He strikes down the mobsters with his pipe, and soon corners the stranger and doesn't hesitate to beat him to the floor as well. He takes the briefcase from the bloodied hand of the stranger, but hears and feels a quaking rattling the building, the train has arrived; he thought, and an unscheduled one at that. Jacket crept his way back down the stairs to find two men rushing in from a train to check on the two corpses on the ground floor. They, too, were wearing white suits.

"Chort!" One exclaimed upon seeing him.

Jacket rushed forward and struck the man across the head with his briefcase before he could attack, knocking him cold against the wall. He brought his leg back and smashed the mobster's skull open against his heel, spraying precious blood on both his foot and the bricks, as the second let out a cry of alarm. The second mobster rushes up to him, but Jacket dodges his foe, and knocks him cold against the olive green floor, and Jacket splits the communist's head in half with three swift strikes from the wide end of the briefcase. Tired but satisfied as his enemy keels over. Jacket rushes out of the station, gets inside the DeLorean, lifts the mask up to the mouth, finally catching his breath, pulls back down, looks both ways for MPD cruisers, and drives away unnoticed from the scene of the crime...

After a short drive across town, Jacket brought his car to a complete stop at a dingy hotel. With the briefcase in one hand, and clenching the other, he crept into an alleyway going around the building to find an open dumpster waiting for him. Cautiously, he placed the briefcase inside and closed the lid, letting out a relived breath at the fact that he had completed his mission. He took his mask off as he leaned up against the wall for a much-needed break and reached into his pocket for a toothpick. Before he could bring it out, a raspy voice from around the corner caused his chest to clench.

"Who's there?"

 _Aw shit! Civilian!_

Jacket held his breath, ducked to the wall beside of the dumpster and hoped that the man waiting there would leave.

"I can hear you! I know you're there!"

No such luck. He put his mask back over his head and prepared himself. This homeless man was a witness, and as the seemingly secret message on the paper had told him, discretion was of essence. But as far as Jacket knew, he had been anything BUT discreet, seeing as he just left a mess of blood and bones in a public train station. Backed in a corner and unarmed, he has little choice but charges up to the assailant he instantly dubs 'The Bum'.

"Hey! The hell are ya doin'?!"

Jacket doesn't answer to the likes of The Bum, he runs up and punches him in the gut, grabs the wooden bat, and bashes the old homeless man's head in with three swift hits. But shortly after, he succumbs to his headache. He removes the chicken mask and his headrush grows more painful by the minute, the aroma of his rampage is simply too much for Jacket. The smell of blood, piss, garbage, gasoline and nicotine flooded his nostrils and he shakes for a while.

 _Oh god, my head... Make it stop! Make it stop..._

The young man reeled over and retched in a corner next to the homeless old man's corpse as tears stung in his eyes. He struggles to catch his breath again, and tried to keep his mind off of the ungodly acts he had just committed as he dashed off to the DeLorean, still traumatized by his fresh wave of memories, and sped away...

Stopping at a corner store, he sat and attempted to catch his breath as he took off his messy driving gloves. Glancing into the shop, he could see his old friend wave to him from behind the counter. The prospect of a little company-and that of getting wasted to really keep his mind off things-sent Jacket into the store.

"Hey, man!"

Jacket's bespectacled friend greeted cheerily as he put his magazine down. He was Prillan Raketgatan, Jacket's oldest friend, and the only one he seemed to really remember, but everyone he thought he knew shortened it to 'Beard', an appropriate nickname indeed. He was just as friendly as Jacket remembered.

"Haven't seen you around." He smiled wryly beneath his bushy facial hair.

"Thought something might have happened to you."

Jacket walked to the back and brought a case of beer to the counter, the cheapest he could find, remembering he was short on cash, then gazed blankly over Beard's head. His halfhearted smile soured.

"You seemed really down after losing your girlfriend. Don't remember seeing you after that..."

His voice trailed off as Jacket took out his wallet and began rooting through it so he could pay for the cheap alcohol.

"Maybe we should talk about something else,"

he said bashfully before forcing a smile.

"So, out for a midnight snack, huh?"

"Yeah. How much?" Jacket mumbled, making eye contact only momentarily.

"Oh, don't worry about it," his friend said with a look of sympathy. "It's on the house."

Jacket raised his eyebrows skeptically before tucking the beer under is arm.

"Thanks," he said quietly as he stepped out into the night.

"Good to see you sir!" Beard called out after him. "Have a nice night!"

With the men he had killed still fresh in his mind, he put the alcohol into the driver's seat and began heading back to his apartment. All of those awful memories would be gone soon, he hoped. He was wrong. DEAD wrong...


	2. FIRST CHAPTER, NO TALK

_April 8th, 1989_

 _Miami - Florida  
_  
Jacket woke up in his bedroom with the murders he got away with five nights ago still fresh in his mind. He decided not to think about it much, unless he wished to get nightmares of his victims. It would be like a man not returning to his wife and children, rejection and misery and guilt would surely follow. The possibility petrified Jacket to the core, but his sentiment for his victims soon soured as he knew at least half of what the Russian Mob was capable of. He paced into the kitchen and saw that the room was still empty as ever, apart from empty bottles of whiskey he bought five nights ago scattered everywhere. His attention was later directed to pink flyers on his dining table from the patriotic newsletter group he signed up for not too long ago:

"Greetings, compatriot! And thank you for subscribing to our newsletter! We appreciate your interest in our cause. America is a tune, it must be sung together. - 50 Blessings"

He remembered something about these papers the group that sold them, 50 Blessings, were unto something else, something bigger. It sounded crazy, but he felt it was important. He soon headed into the living room, another message, he thought, and guessed correctly as a red light was blinking on the answering machine. He knew what happened the last time he picked up the phone, and prayed the message would not take him to another building stuffed with Russian mobsters. He held his breath and picked up the phone:

" **You have one new message at: 7:28 Am**." *Beep!* "Hello, it's 'Linda'... I need a babysitter right away. Got a few kids that need to be disciplined here. I'm at East 7th street. Make sure you have a long talk with them, I really need someone to get through to these rascals. And like last time... please be discreet!"

 _At first, I thought the phone was acting up, now I don't even question it..._

This was a puzzle that Jacket had a difficult time solving. The spark was there, he knew something like this would happen, he just didn't recall how or why it happens. After finishing his breakfast, Jacket made his way down the stairs, out through the front yard, and into the DeLorean. Just then, he saw something in the back seat and pulled it out.

 _Hey, the hell is this?..._

The object was, of all things, another rubber animal mask, but not just any animal mask- it resembled a horned owl. It's plastic fur was somehow soft, and the optics of the mask glowed whenever Jacket stared into it directly. He was too creeped out by the mask to question why it was in his car or who left it there. He needed to go to East 7th Street and fast, so he sped off...

 _ **FIRST CHAPTER**_

 _ **NO TALK**_

 _East 7th Street_

Jacket stopped his car near the large house, got out and came to a halt at the front door. He reached into his coat to find two masks: the rooster mask he received five nights ago, and the owl he found earlier. He stared at the owl mask for a while, and tossed the rooster back in the car. The owl mask was in a slight shade between tan and burgundy, a dark black beak and the glowing optics he noticed earlier.

 _Sure, let's go for it._

He soon donned the owl mask, and stepped inside to be met with a large corridor with many carpets. And for some reason Jacket couldn't explain, his eyesight was improved by the new mask. Thanks to this mask, Jacket could see a little more clearly ahead of him, albeit in a tint of neon yellow. He didn't question this either, and stepped to the left and paced up the stairs that came to a thinner corridor with a tan carpet. He paced up the stairs and saw a strange red marking on the ground next to the doors. It was a circle with three lines beside it going across. Jacket's memories returned again, about buildings like these would be marked by this symbol.

 _I could've sworn I've seen this somewhere before..._

He opened the door, only to be met by a pile of filthy old coats: a black one with a snake, and a diamond-striped white one with a yellow scorpion on the backside. A mobster patrolled the room with a baseball bat. Jacket is in for a shock after seeing him.

 _Aw shit! This again?!_

Jacket quickly knocked him down, and the thug dropped his weapon. The mobster quickly got back up and tightened his grip on his baseball bat. But Jacket threw him to the floor a second time, grabbed the bat and, after three 'strikes', he painted the carpet in a new color called 'Hint of Brain'. Remembering what happened last time, Jacket felt minimal resentment for his victim and stormed the kitchen, and opened the door in front of him, unknowingly knocking down a mobster holding an M16 assault rifle. And Jacket delivered three hits to the face to finish the job, stopped dead in mere seconds before the Bolshevik could awaken and react.

He grabbed the rifle and opened the next door and fired, intentionally missing a few shots, to gain the next mobster's attention. Jacket pulled the trigger and sent several slugs into the commie's throat, sending the mobster to the floor. He shook for a while, flapping his legs before he bled to death.

Jacket picked up the rifle again and strafed to the right where he spotted another mobster with a pipe sitting on a couch. The mobster takes notice of him in mere seconds, before he could react, Jacket pulled the trigger, and several bullets disappeared into the Bolshevik's chest cavity, the criminal's blood mixing with the neon pink lining of the couch.

Jacket headed through the previous rooms where he saw another mobster holding a double barrel shotgun. The gunfire of the rifle had conspicuously drawn his attention, and he soon looked in the kitchen. Jacket fired a few shots, missed a few, but blew the mobster's head clean off. The Russian fell flat on his chest and bled all over the kitchen floor.

Jacket was horrified at first, [along with the] fact that tonight's murders had been quick and brutal. He still shook at the thought, but soon adjusted to it, knowing the horrible things the Russians had done. Sputnik, the arms race, the Missile Crisis. Insulting events such as this gave Jacket second thoughts, but he still had a job to do. Besides, who knew what these little bastards were up to in days like these?

He picked up the shotgun from his new victim and snuck into the next room where he saw a mobster sitting next to a radio, blasting an oddly funky tune reminiscent of a trance. He opened fire on the mobster, severing the his leg, and damaging the radio in the process. What followed was static on the radio, and finally... silence, apart from a low, humming noise penetrating Jacket's ear.

Could it [have been] from the gunfire? He thought[,] not, it had to be something else. It hit hard on him because when he fought, he had little time to be thoughtful and tactical and by the time [the adrenaline] wore off, Jacket realized the chaos and horror he committed.

His shock didn't last, however. He decided that he would think about it later, and headed through the other rooms and back down to the ground floor. He proceeded through the lifeless corridor, and unmasked inside the DeLorean, before looking] to the side, and speeding away into the neon haze of his beloved Miami driveway, the yellow scorpion keychain on his rearview mirror dangling as he rode...

Jacket took a break and stopped near "Slashin' Pizza", a pizza parlor Jacket had a particular interest in. He stepped inside, and saw a man and his boy feasting on pizza before noticing his bespectacled friend again, albeit in a pizza joint uniform, complete with a pizza box next to him. He said:

"Oh? Hi there, welcome! No need to order anything, man! Your pizza's already done..."

Jacket was then handed his pizza, his eyebrow still raised in slight confusion.

"Yeah, I kinda had a feeling you would be here...Well, let's just leave at that, shall we?"

"Sure..." Jacket uttered as he reached for his wallet.

"So- Oh! And there's no need to pay or anything, it's on the house."

He took a sniff, and knew he'd hate for good pizza like this to go to waste. Perhaps it was worth being on the house. He stepped out, and got back inside the DeLorean, retrieving a slice out of the box and taking a bite before hitting the gas pedal and heading home...


	3. SECOND CHAPTER, OVERDOSE

_April 16, 1989_

 _Miami - Florida_

Jacket thrust open the door into the kitchen and leaned over the pizza box left out on the table. Two slices remained, and the thought of room-temperature pizza seemed more than a little enticing. Why was he always so hungry after waking up?

He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep since the previous night, as tumultuous as that had been, and tonight he had been turning over in bed for hours on end in a futile attempt to get some rest.  
He sighed and turned away from the table as he thought of the one thing he wanted more than pizza.

 _Damn, I need a smoke._

Combing a hand through the wild pale-blond mess that was his hair, he groggily shuffled across the hall to the couch and sat down beside the end table, fishing through the open drawer for a pack of cigarettes. Some kind of rush went through him when he noticed the small red light blinking on the answering machine—perhaps it was a shot of excitement, perhaps a twinge of anxiety—but he was certainly awake now. He slipped the newly discovered pack of cigarettes into his pocket, put the phone receiver up to his ear and played back the answering machine.

" **You have one new message at 11:50 AM.** " *Beep!* _"This is 'Thomas' from the methadone clinic. We've scheduled a short meeting for you tonight. We're at northwest 184th street, apartment 105. And uh, don't worry, we know discretion is of importance to our clients."_ *Beep!*

After a tense few seconds of silence, "Thomas" hung up and the message ended. Hesitantly, Jacket placed down the phone and glanced up at the clock on the far wall. He had no job to worry about at 12:09 on a Sunday morning, he had more important matters to attend to. But first, a look at his newspaper:

" _Six bodies found on East 7th Street... Police suspect ties to illegal drug trade... Witnesses claim monster leaving the scene..."_

Jacket had started cutting out certain articles from his newspaper concerning his rampages. Whoever provided the info on these pages was catching up to him. How or why they able to keep a tab on his actions so quickly soon fell from his concern as he was eager to get down to business. As he prepared to light the cigarette between his lips when he opened his apartment door, he almost stumbled over a package on the doorstep.

"Hmm? What could this be?"

He slipped his lighter away and inspected the parcel more closely. The recipient address was his, all right, but the package was marked with the name "Tony" in black marker—and it was devoid of any return address. He put it up to his ear and shook it; whatever was inside, it was light, hollow and soft. Why was the word "clandestine" coming to mind?

With a shrug, Jacket tucked the box under his arm and made his way down the stairs to the DeLorean. He flipped the gull-wing door, threw the package onto the passenger seat and sat down at the wheel. It was time to flush out some Pinkos.

His service in Hawaii came to mind, and he forced the thought away with a stern twist of the ignition key...

 _ **SECOND CHAPTER**_

 ** _OVERDOSE_**

 _North West 184th Street_

As he sat in his sports car, Jacket tore into the cardboard box on his lap and reached inside to find another rubber mask. Cautiously, he stepped out of the vehicle, spat out his spent cigarette butt and inspected his disguise in the moonlight. This new mask was an interesting one indeed: a snarling tiger. It looked like the kind of thing Jacket would have worn for Halloween when he was thirteen. It even resembled his old basketball team's mascot, the face of which he had stitched unto the back of his varsity coat he kept as memento to his high school years. He dropped his arms to his sides and peered at the sloppily painted insignia on the structure before him. With some trepidation, he put the mask on and closed the door of his DeLorean.

 _Here goes nothing..._

He trembled with dreadful anticipation and knocked on the apartment door. He was... knocking at the door of the hardened Russian criminals he was sent to whack? What kinda pussy was he turning into? He drew his fist back in an attempt to prove himself wrong. The door opened to reveal a balding middle-aged man in a familiar white suit and blue denim shirt, auburn brow cocked skeptically.

"Who da fuck are you?" He muttered as Jacket let fly.

As soon as the young man's knuckles made contact, the mobster's jaw was smashed clear off and what remained of his skull twisted sideways with a nauseating crack. Spattered in blood, Jacket stumbled backward with a half-yelp.

 _Holy shit!_ He almost cried out loud.

A second gangster came around the corner at the end of the hall, shotgun in hand, and the initial shock Jacket was feeling gradually gave way to morbid wonder.  
What the hell was going on? Was this some kind of sleeplessness-induced hallucination? Was this some kind of dream? Whatever it was, it was more than a little empowering.

The shotgun-wielding criminal across the room had taken aim with his weapon, and Jacket ducked out of the doorway as a flurry of metal pellets embedded themselves in the wall and door-frame. He might have been able to punch a man's jaw off and break his neck with a single swing, but there was no way he could survive a shotgun blast in nothing but a letterman jacket and a t-shirt. Still, it was worth a try, considering the brute strength he now possessed.

The man shouted something in Russian to a fellow mobster, and the two began expressing their horror at the condition of the door guard. Swiftly, Jacket dove into the doorway and attacked. He struck one gangster with a right hook, breaking open the side of his skull, and slammed another fist squarely into the other mobster's face with the force of a sledgehammer. Once his opponents were down, he gazed down at his bloodied hands in awe. Things were going to get—dare he think it—fun.

He snatched the discarded shotgun from the gore-soaked carpet and pumped the expired shell from the tube before slinging it under his shoulder—no telling what was in store for him on the next floor. A rifle bolt snapped back from behind him. Jacket whipped around and fired, blasting the arm from the Russian across the hall before he could attack.  
It was no time to muse, Jacket decided—he had a job to do.

He dashed into the hall and took a swing at one final mobster emerging from a bathroom before taking a left and bolting up a staircase to find himself in a narrow hallway leading to a kitchen. With newfound caution he crept inside, expecting some Russian gangster to pummel him with a baseball bat, but the room was surprisingly vacant. As he approached, he noticed a discarded slice of pizza left on a table—and immediately realized he forgot his own pizza back at his flat.

With a glance back at the door to apartment 105, Jacket carefully removed his mask—taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of dry, cool air on his sweaty face—and began eating the discarded pizza. The stuff was cheap and a bit tasteless, sure, but it was exactly what he needed. Once he was finished, the door to the apartment closed behind him and his heart skipped.

"Hands behind your head, _mudak_ ,"

growled a voice. Certain that a gun was trained on him, Jacket complied.

"Turn around."

Jacket found himself facing not one, but two Russian mobsters at the door, one with a pistol trained between Jacket's eyes and the other with a hunting knife.

All because of a fucking pizza.  
Jacket would have sighed in frustration if he wasn't sweating bullets. He glanced down at the tiger mask on the floor—a powerful weapon, he considered it—and wished that he could bash the sneers from these bastards' faces.

The knife-wielding Russian forcefully grabbed Jacket's collar and cut the shotgun strap slung over his shoulder before shoving him back into a stove. Jacket recoiled his right hand in pain once it contacted the scalding-hot surface.

"Ah, fuck!"

He snarled, gripping his wrist. The other Russian kept his pistol trained on Jacket's chest as he met him face-to-face.

"So," he said with a contemptuous scowl, "you must be one of those masked assholes."

 _One of 'them'?_

Jacket wondered, but dared not speak his thoughts.

"Who do you work for? Answer me!"

The Bolshevik snarled as he took Jacket's right hand and—at the same time his captive did—looked down at a pot of boiling water on the stove.

If Jacket was going to die, he wouldn't be telling the Russians a damn thing. With his free hand he hit his interrogator with a gut punch and grabbed the nearest weapon to him: the pot of water. In a fit of hysteria, he swung the boiling water into the standing gangster's face, sending him to the floor in agony, and beat the second one to death with the empty pot.

Panting and exhilarated, Jacket took his mask off the floor and took the dead mobster's pistol from his hand. His finger wasn't even on the trigger—they really wanted him alive.  
Jacket tucked the handgun in his pants and prepared to knock down the door.

 _You'll sure be getting me alive, all right._

With his fists of fury, he barreled into the door and bashed in one gangster's head before he could even get up off the couch he lounged in.  
"You want me?!" He roared as he kicked in another door and busted open another criminal's skull with a left hook,

"Come n' get me!"

One Russian ran at him with a lead pipe, only to have the side of his face caved in with the audible cracking of bone.

Three more mobsters began shouting in Russian from a kitchen to Jacket's left, and he kicked open the door. One man was knocked to his back while the other two were quickly and messily executed. Swiftly, Jacket stooped over the incapacitated gangster and pounded his head into a mess of blood and gray matter with both fists. Damn, his hands felt like they were made of steel! He even felt like tearing apart the Soviet Union with his damn bare hands if he wanted! But not net, he thought. He knew for some reason that things wouldn't go that far yet.

A kind of invincible fury ran through Jacket as he knocked down the door into a lounge and blasted away three armed gangsters with his silenced pistol. The stench of death came to him as he made his way to the door of a bathroom across the room—while noticeable, it wasn't sobering by any stretch of the imagination. If anything, it fed his need for bloodshed.

With a crack of his knuckles, Jacket thrust open the door to find the final mobster staring in the mirror, distracted by a Walkman headset on his ears. Once he noticed Jacket, he stumbled back in terror and pulled off his headset.

Without so much as a threat, Jacket grabbed a hunting shotgun leaning beside the doorframe before the Russian could grab it and decided to put his newfound strength to the test—gripping one end of the weapon in each end, he bent the tough metal barrels with surprising ease and tossed the useless weapon aside as the gangster looked on, mouth agape with horror.

Deciding to finish his mission, Jacket grabbed the man by his shaggy black hair and slammed his face into the mirror several times, sending bits of broken glass to the floor along with the freshly made corpse. Quick, precise- Glorious.

Jacket found himself sitting in the lounge and staring up at the ceiling fans as the red mist began to fade away. The stench of blood had grown overpowering, and he had to smoke cigarette after cigarette to calm his nerves. He looked down at his cigarette box and fingered the inside bitterly.

 _Damn, all out._

With a groan, he sat up—and collapsed again at the nauseating sight before him. Good God, how had he not noticed this before?

A dead man, stripped of all clothing but a walrus mask, was slumped over in a cheap wooden chair. He was covered in welts, bruises and cuts, clearly the products of brutal torture, but what truly made Jacket grimace were a pair of alligator clips—one attached to a car battery beneath the seat and the other to the man's exposed genitals. Jacket could only imagine himself in such a situation as he left the apartment and fought the urge to vomit as he drove away from the bloodbath...

In an exhausted stupor, Jacket made his way through the video rental store and leaned over the front desk. With a cheerful grin, his friend Nicholas adjusted his glasses and diverted his attention from the television on the counter.  
"Hey, dude," he said, "good to see you. You feelin' tired?"

"How'd you guess?"

Jacket asked with a half-smile as a sudden light-headed was overcame him. The two friends laughed for a while. He finished and leaned over the counter and shook his head as Beard came around the counter with his chair and placed it down.

"C'mon, Dick. Grab a seat."

He said worriedly as Jacket did so, and returned to his side of the counter.

"So, did you hear about that massacre the other night?"

A twinge of anxiety went through Jacket's spine, though he tried not to let it show.

"A bunch of Ruskies, I heard. No loss, if you ask me!"

The two friends shared a laugh again as Jacket wagged his head again.

"They say some maniac wearing a rubber mask did it. Sounds like a scene straight out of—!"

"Maniac?"

Jacket echoed, Beard was going to utter 'slasher flick' but stopped as Jacket sounded concerned over the fact.

"I heard that the Russians this guy killed were all criminals, part of the mafia. Who's to say he's not just serving his country?"

"I wouldn't know whether he's doing it for America or doing it for himself. Either way, his days are numbered."

Beard considered this as his eyes wandered to Jacket's right hand and widened in surprise.

"Uh, what happened to your hand, dude?"

"I, uh, burned it on a hot stove. You got any ice?"

"No, but I've got this..."

Beard reached into a cooler behind him, retrieved an ice-cold soda bottle and handed it to Jacket.

"That should do you good until you get back to your place," he said with a goodhearted smirk. "And, before I forget—" he reached across the counter and handed his friend a VHS tape— "I have the perfect film for you. Take it, it's on the house."

"Thanks," Jacket said as he took his gifts and made his way to the door.

"Enjoy yourself, dude!"

Beard called after him. Jacket slouched down in the passenger seat of his car and looked down at his tiger mask in the passenger seat with a sigh. Just a drive down the block and he could finally get some much-needed sleep...

-credit to THELEGOMack for writing this chapter-


	4. THIRD CHAPTER, DECADENCE

_April 25th, 1989  
Miami - Florida_

Jacket stormed out of the bedroom, and he hadn't slept a wink knowing the media called him a monster. What he also knew was that the mobsters were questioning men who wore masks just like him. They all wanted the same thing; To know just what the hell is going on. If the Russians were going to interrogate him, he mustn't say a damn thing next time around. He lit a fresh cigarette as he looked at the newspaper and the clipping of the article involving his ruckus he made on April 16th. He picked up the clip and read it;

 _"...another massacre has been reported on NW 184th Street... ...string of gang related violence throughout Miami..."_

Things have quite escalated since that night, and knew for some reason that the mask he used there belonged to somebody else. The blood was on his hands, but the blame belongs to 'Tony', whoever he was, wherever he hid out. He would get the straight answer whether this 'Tony' liked it or not. The blinking red light on Jacket's answering machine was starting to annoy him so he wished to get on with it and picked up the phone and held it to his ear and sat down on the couch:

" **You have one new massage. Saturday: at: 9:22 PM.** " *beep!* _"Hi, it's Kate from Hotline Miami's dating service. We have set up a date for you this evening. She'll be waiting for you at SW 53rd Place. As usual, make sure you wear something fancy." *beep!*_

 _Hotline Miami, huh? So that's what it's called..._

Jacket was curious but he would ponder this 'Hotline' later, he had a job to do. He made his way to the door and opened up when he noticed a package next to it similar to the one that gave him the tiger mask. He looked at the parcel and saw the name 'Aubrey' on the front written in black marker and devoid of a return address like the last one. He took it inside and opened it up, and found a rubber mask, in the form of a frowning pig. He looked at it more closely as he placed it back in the box and stepped outside and got into his DeLorean and sped away to his new 'Dating Service'...

 ** _THIRD C_ _HAPTER  
_**

 **DECADENCE**

 _South West 53rd Place_

Jacket stepped out of the DeLorean and at an exquisite building. It must've belonged to someone with a lot of money to spare. He did not question the price and put on the pig mask. To his surprise, it was a perfect fit! When he put it on, Jacket's mind flooded with thoughts of guns; lots of guns. He felt like he was back in Hawaii, he forced this thought from himself as he opened the door, stepped unto the carpet, and ignored the security camera to his left and opened the door.

At the end of this hallway he spotted a mobster wielding a golf club. He stealthily crept up to the pinko and pushed him to the wooden floor at Jacket's feet. His anger only multiplied as he gripped his hands around the man's head and smashed open the forehead with three knocks to the ground, he was disgusted and aroused as his victim's brains leaked open.

He gripped the golf club that lay below him and marched into a hall with a magenta carpet. In this hallway, he spotted an M16 lying on the floor, and a mobster brandishing an exact duplicate. Knowing he'll be shot to ribbons if he charged down the hallway, Jacket has little options, so he tosses the golf club at his enemy with a direct hit straight to the face. Jacket approached the semi-comatose body of his enemy and bashes his face against the locked door, again ignoring a camera...

Behind this door as an obese African-American man in a dark suit enjoying a bowl of popcorn and a bizarre tape he recorded earlier. His name; Wilson Fisker. An infamous underground movie producer who sold his films to the black market and made a fortune. The one person behind his success and notoriety was his leading lady: Debra Joanne Summers, who was drugged in the cage behind him. On his screen, he saw a strange man in a letterman jacket and a mask resembling a certain farm animal. When he saw this man execute a guard on his second camera, he knew he was in danger. Good thing he hired men from the Lebadev crime family to do security. He held up the microphone and said:

"Would security please remove the man in the varsity coat and animal mask? He's making a mess in the house. Thank you!"

 _Aw shit._

Jacket knew he should've removed the cameras, now everyone in the building knew he was here. Having little options, he slammed open the door to his right and knocks a mobster to the ground. A mobster sitting on the couch was started by Jacket's tape that he got off the couch and charged at him with a golf club of his own. Jacket threw his club at the rival, and was sent down to the floor as well. The previous criminal he knocked unconscious, however, got up and tried to attack him. Jacket grabbed him and lunged into the man's throat, damaged his lungs with almost surgical precision and sent him to the floor, squirming and bleeding everywhere.

 _This is almost too easy..._

The leather brown texture of his gloves was stained with the blood from his victim's throat, he grabbed the second mobster who tried to get away and slammed his head on the side of the couch, splitting his skull open and Jacket pushed him unto the cushion to bleed out, his shock overwhelmed by the schadenfreude he felt from the carnage he caused.

He took up a golf club and stood at the door in front of him. He opened up and knocked an enemy to the floor. His partner had little time to react as Jacket struck him in the jaw with the club, and bashed the first one's head repeatedly, the head was turned into red paste as the skull was smashed to dust. Jacket casually walked out of the room and picked up a shotgun that was dropped by his earlier victim and proceeded back into the corridor.

The vanilla-suited communists were caught off guard by the noise outside courtesy of Jacket as one by one he shot them dead. The corpses soon piled up as he was done on this floor, and proceeded upstairs where he assumed that his job would soon be done. Feeling he had very little ammunition left on his shotgun, he picked up an M16 and bolted up the stairs where he spotted a mobster residing near a billiards table.

Knowing full well of a potential firefight should he shoot this thug, Jacket detects a golf club behind him, grips it and bashes the criminal from behind, his face hitting the floor, staining the neon green of the table with blood. Jacket proceeded into a section that appeared to be a trophy room as he noticed mounted animal heads on the walls and a tiger carpet.

As usual, the guards here, two from the looks of it, had little time to react as Jacket bashed their heads from side to side with the club, a red mist soon followed. His hands felt like they were on fire after killing two Russians in the trophy room. Whoever lived here must've been an accomplished game hunter, he thought. Hearing a flush in the restroom ahead, he charges inside and sliced the next mobster's head clean off, prompting the half-corpse to misfire and dispense lead on the walls next to the latrines, his blood wetting the aqua brick texture of the restroom.

Clutching a fresh shotgun from his enemy, Jacket speeds out of the restroom and the trophy room and back near the pool table, he soon detects another mobster waltzing in to investigate, and shoots him stone dead next to the pot plants and a couch that he was admiring before continuing his search. Remembering another door in the trophy room, Jacket heads back there and opens it, another Russian and a camera are waiting there.

"Oh, you GOTTA be kidding me-"

His final words were cut off as Jacket unloaded a shotgun shell into his ribcage. His partner was the next to die as the pig-masked hitman opened fire and snuffed out another. Jacket was seemingly undaunted by the fact that he had so many guns to use on his enemies, and was almost aroused by the smell of gunpowder and smoke that flooded his nostrils through the plastic mask he wore. He then side-tracked out of the trophy room and inspected the next room ahead of him.

Jacket opened the door and spotted another Russian mobster standing near a bed holding a twin barreled hunting rifle. Jacket cocked the death machine in his hands and blasted the mobster's head open, a festival of gore soon followed. He soon crept back into the room and spotted one mobster sitting on a couch, and another standing next to him inspecting the headless, bleeding corpse beside them. Jacket cocked again and blew them both away with one shot left. He took courtesy and left the empty shotgun next to the men that he killed and stormed back down the stairs.

"Guess I've gotta do everything myself, huh?"

Wilson has had it. Whoever this was, it was looking for him, he feels that he has little choice but to oblige him. He soon removes his suit to reveal a gunmetal combat vest. Danielle, or 'Debbie' as everyone called her slowly recovered and looked at The Producer and demanded to get out. The Producer ignored his favorite Hooker and put on his knuckledusters.

"Now you just stay here..."

"Hey Wilson, you can't just leave me here... *coughs* you asshole... I've got nowhere to go."

"My leading lady isn't going anywhere, now shut your trap. I'm going..."

"Why don't you come back and finish what you've started?.."

The Producer ignored her again as he opened the door and found Jacket standing out in the corridor with a shotgun, and quickly recognized Wilson. He charges straight towards him but Jacket opens fire and knocks him into the floor leaving a dent in the vest. He got up again, but Jacket shot him in the chest again, knocking him down once more. He gets up again and shot him another time, denting the armor and sending him down. What a pussy, he thought. He can't even fight properly.

"Oh god.. *cough* Please, don't!"

Jacket leans down to The Producer clutches his hands around his eyes and presses his thumbs downward;

"Aaah! AAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGH! *crunch*"

Jacket moves the eyeless corpse aside and picks up the shotgun and cocks it again, and proceeds down the hallway and into the room that was previously locked, when he noticed something he instantly remembered when he looked into the cage.

 _My god..._

"Yeah. J- Just get it over with... I knew it would end this way... I knew it..."

It was obvious she doesn't know him because of the mask, and she was too drugged out to move. Jacket reaches into Debbie's cage and takes her out of it, and walks her out bridal-style into the DeLorean. After what he saw tonight, he vowed to do anything within his power to rehabilitate her and considers their future together as he places her in the passenger seat.

"Oh, my head..." Said Debbie.

"Don't you worry, you're safe now." Said Jacket.

"How... So? You killed everyone inside, including Wilson..." She replied.

"Because I just got you out of there..." He told her.

"But, I don't even know who you are..." Debbie commented. Jacket knew that Debbie would be shocked if he revealed himself after knowing what he did, but he knows she can handle it once she recovers from the drugs.

"Hey, do you wanna see something?" He asked her.

"Yeah." She paused before saying this.

"Okay..." Jacket answered before unmasking and revealing his face to her...

 _Back against the wall and odds. With the strength of a will and a cause._  
 _Your pursuits are called outstanding. You're emotionally complex._  
 _Against the grain of dystopic claims, not the thoughts your actions entertain,_  
 _and you, have proved, to be..._

Debbie was surprised at seeing the face of a handsome young stranger before her that saved her life. Even though she never met this man, she liked him. She liked him a lot.

 _A Real Human Being... and A Real Hero..._  
 _Real Human Being... and A Real Hero..._  
 _Real Human Being..._

"Let's get out of here..." Said Jacket as he hit the ignition...

After dropping Debbie back at the apartment to recover, Jacket parked to his favorite tavern; Jason's Alehouse. He stepped through the door and headed to the bar and was greeted by Beard with a small sleeve tux and braided hair;

"Hi there! What'll it be tonight?" Asked Beard. "You don't look well, sir. Are you alright? Are you sure it's okay for you to be out drinking tonight?"

"Of course it is. I'm celebrating." He answered.

"Sounds great! What's the occasion?" Beard asked again.

"I met a girl tonight..." Jacket smirked and blushed as he told him this.

"Well, alright then..! Listen, I'll make you something special tonight." He said. "Which do you prefer? Sweet? Sour? Maybe bitter...? No, I know what you want. Just a moment." Said beard as he went to the machine and poured out a purplish alcoholic beverage and placed a small paper umbrella in the glass. "Lemme top it off for you..." He grabbed a lemon, squished it and poured the lemon juice into the beverage and handed it to Jacket. "There you are."

"Thanks." Said Jacket as he emptied the concoction at a breath and handed the glass back to Beard. It was his favorite; Grape Vodka. He didn't need to ask him if it was on the house because Beard was his friend, and it was obvious everything was free when he was around. Jacket raised his thumb and headed outside the entrance and back into the DeLorean, plugged in the keys and started the ignition and drove back home to check on Debbie...


End file.
